Court Etiquette
by The Alien of Pluto
Summary: The Queen of Hearts doesn't like to be ignored, but it's one of the hazards of breaking in new pawns.


So many hats. So many. Useless, pretty, pretty hats. None of them work. He can't get them to work.

"Still no luck, Hatter?" the Queen simpers at him, materializing out of the depths of the stacks of failed hats. She picks her way over tossed-around spools and upended boxes of pins and makes her way behind his desk.

He stands, bent over the work table, frantically –always frantically –but carefully cutting a wide roll of fabric into strips. He doesn't answer her. He's too focused, barely knows she's there, and too afraid to address her even if he did.

"We've spoken of this before, Hatter: do not ignore me."

He finishes cutting the strips, and moves to start lining them up with the hat base. Its black fabric that he works with, velvet, like his Hat but newer and he thinks that maybe that's the problem; that it's not exactly like his Hat. Maybe that's why it doesn't work, hasn't worked, won't work. He jams his thumb between his teeth and bites hard, tries to keep focused. One of them will work. One of them will have to. Every minute he spends here is another sixty seconds that Grace has to spend alone. Get it to-!

Magic wraps abruptly around his middle, pins his hands to his sides, spins him around. The Queen looks angry. Jefferson screws his eyes shut.

"You're lucky you've gone mad, boy, or I'd have your head again."

Yes, he thinks, lucky. Lucky, lucky. Poor, mad Hatter. He smiles too wide at her, all teeth like the Cat, keeps his eyes closed.

"Look at me."

The smile is gone when she blinks, as if it had never been. He won't look at her, can't look at her, absolutely not. He can feel her staring, and he shivers. The magic wraps tighter, squeezing painfully, and lifts him up. The stone floor sinks under his feet, and he hangs there as the Queen draws him closer. When she speaks, it's from inches away from his ear.

"Open your eyes."

He does, lifts his lids, but strains his eyeballs looking as far to the side as he can. By some trick of his vision, she almost disappears from his sight. Then she moves, grabs his hair in her hand and pulls away from where he's looking. It startles him enough, hurts enough that he unthinkingly glances over. Once he meets her eyes, he can't look away.

"You will listen when I speak to you," she says softly. "You will address me as 'Your Majesty.' I know you know court etiquette; and you will follow it. You will obey orders immediately and without question. Do you understand?"

He whimpers. She's still pulling on his hair, still crushing his ribs with magic. He's not working on his hats.

"What was that? Speak up, Hatter, you're mumbling."

"Yes, yes," he whispers.

The Queen releases him. His feet hit the ground with soft thumps, and he takes an exaggerated breath. It isn't meant to be disrespectful. A lot of his movements are exaggerated nowadays, even more so than before. The Queen understands but he can't relax because he's still not working on his hats. Still not working!

"Good. But we still need to teach you a lesson, don't we? We've talked about this before, and yet you still disregarded me this morning."

He shakes his head frantically, eyes wide.

"_Didn't,"_ he mouths, the word stuck in his chest.

The Queen smiles and it isn't at all reassuring. She steps around him and heads for the door, and for one bizarre moment he thinks she's going to let him escape untouched, but then he feels the magic. Thick, invisible irons snap around his wrists and drag him after her, away from his hats. He screams.

"NO! I'm sorry! Please don't! I haven't finished yet! It doesn't work yet!"

He strains against the magic, futile as he knows it is, and struggles to reach back, to touch the work table, to grab just one hat and a needle. He sees the strips of fabric twitch, but it isn't his doing. Two pieces rise from the table. The short, wide bit bundles itself up and forces its way into his mouth, gagging him and muffling his pleas. He nearly chokes, and tries to force it out with his tongue, but it won't budge. The second strip, much longer and somewhat thinner, winds one end of itself gently around his neck, sticking itself to his skin. It leaves a long ribbon of fabric dangling over his waistcoat. Then the magic disappears from around his wrists and catches hold of the strip, drags him forward; it's a leash for the Queen's broken pet, degrading, but all he cares about is that it won't let him go back.

The Queen leads him to the bright outside, to the open courtyard where all of her dealings are held. It's empty except for the Knave, who's hurrying out from the door on the opposing side, clutching his cap to his head in one hand, and the Queen's veil and speaking tube precariously in the other as he runs. He skids to a stop, bows hastily, and holds out the veil to the Queen.

She slips it under her crown and folds it out of her face, lowers herself elegantly onto the throne, and pats the left side of it, a faint smile on her blood-painted lips. But Jefferson doesn't see; he's distracted by a butterfly that's somehow dared to fly into the castle boundaries. It flaps around lazily, not seeming to realize the danger it's in by being there, and does loop-the-loops so that its wings catch the sunlight. He forgets about the hats. Jefferson reaches up with trembling, bandaged fingers and grabs it from the air. At the same time, the Queen telekinetically yanks on the leash, and Jefferson goes stumbling sideways with the butterfly caught in the tips of his fingers.

Magic drags him to the throne until he's close enough that the Queen can take the leash in her own thin claws. Cold smile on her lips, she smooths the end of the strip onto the arm of the throne so that it stays fast in place. The leash isn't long enough that Jefferson can stand up all the way, so he sinks down and crosses his legs. She reaches down and gently pulls the gag from his mouth. His face feels funny. He sucks at his teeth. The Queen strokes his hair and the butterfly struggles in his hands. He hasn't remembered the hats, and it's a relief.

Nobles and courtiers start to file in and take their places along the edge of the courtyard. When they are in place a horn sounds and the gates open up, the delegation from the King of Spades marches in. Someone starts speaking. Jefferson doesn't listen. The butterfly is flailing in his grip and it's getting his fingers dirty, and the thing is big enough that keeping a hold on it is actually rather awkward. He tilts his head and wonders. The Queen doesn't feed him very often, and now that he isn't distracted by sewing, he finds that he's actually quite hungry. The butterfly's wings are made of buttered toast and its cold but he doesn't care. He holds the insect tight in one hand, and reaches the other up to rip off one wing. It squeals, high and agonized, but butterfly-small.

A few of the guards, both Red and Black, glance at him sitting there by the throne, but quickly look back, not to be distracted. Jefferson doesn't notice. He nibbles on the edge of the bread, finds that it's very good, and spends a few minutes taking small bites until he finishes it. The butterfly is still writhing in his grasp, weaker now, but more desperate. Well, he thinks, it should have known. Not many who enter the Heart Queen's court leave with all of their pieces where they were. If they leave at all, that is. Anyway, it's still got one more wing, and Jefferson's still hungry.

The King's emissary says something about a little blonde girl in a blue dress. Jefferson pinches the tip of the butterfly's remaining wing in two calloused fingers and slowly, slowly pulls. The butterfly shrieks, thrashing, wailing. Jefferson keeps pulling until he's got the wing off halfway, three-quarters, working in stops and starts that make the butterfly howl with each shift of pressure.

Then there's a hand on the leash, right at his neck, cold fingers chilling his skin, and the Queen lifts him up –so strong, especially sitting down –to pull his head close to hers. She's got her veil on, he can't see her face and she doesn't speak, but he gets the message, nods frantically until she lets go. He falls back, and the emissary keeps speaking like she never stopped. Jefferson doesn't take his eyes off her as he gives one swift yank and tears the rest of the wing off. The butterfly squeals once more, and he hastily crams the entire toast into his mouth before the Queen can take it away from him. He glances sideways at her, but the woman doesn't react. He tries to smile at his victory but his cheeks are too full.

The butterfly is limp in his hands, now, its many legs swinging weakly with his movements. He supposes he can't call it a butterfly now. It can't fly, and it hasn't got any more butter on it. He wishes it had been a jam-and-butter-fly. Or a fruit fly. Jam is nice.

His mouth is packed, and he's having trouble chewing, but he works at it steadily as the Knave debates with the emissary, and the insect simply hangs there. Jefferson lifts it to his face and pouts at it as he swallows; it stares back, eyes empty and hopeless. He doesn't like the way the look makes him feel, so he drops his hand back to his lap and starts counting the bug's legs in time to a quiet lullaby.

A horn sounds and he jars, head shooting up to look around. The Spades delegation is leaving, filing out the doors two-by-two except for the speaker who breaks the pattern by having her own row. So very important. Jack of Spades.

Jefferson shoots to his feet, ready to go back, he has hats to make, except that the leash is too short and he chokes before he can stand straight. He tugs at the fabric, but it holds still. He tugs again, knows that it has to let go, needs to let go; he has to get back.

A sudden wave of magic slams into him from above, and he crumples to his knees, biting his tongue and barely missing smashing his nose into the throne's marble arm as he goes down. The Queen climbs gracefully to her feet, and pulls her veil from her head. She stares at him expressionlessly.

"It seems you didn't catch the meaning of your lesson, Hatter. The queen rises first. Pity. Now, I can't let your return to your hats; you'll have to stay here until we can try again."

"What?" Jefferson gapes at her. "What? No! You have to let me go back! I have to go back! It doesn't work yet; I need to get it work! You can't! I _have_ to go back! _I have to!"_

The Queen doesn't look back at him. The Knave does, but only for a moment, and then he hurries after her majesty.

Jefferson can't breathe. He needs to get back to the hats, they won't make themselves! He picks, and wrenches, and tears at the seam between the leash and the throne, but the magic holds and it doesn't come loose and it doesn't rip. He screams and then bites hard on his thumb to cut it short. The Queen likes quiet.

The bug in his hand moans and he glances sharply down to squint at it. The magic isn't going to let him go. Jefferson gives up. He's not going to get back. He'll be stuck here forever, and Grace will remain alone in their cabin in the woods, and she'll grow old, and he'll be here, and he broke his promise. He turns and slides down to his butt, his back against the cool face of the throne, and cries. Maybe the neighbours will keep her safe. He lets the bug go. It wobbles away as fast as it can, and disappears. He can't keep his Grace safe.

The Queen doesn't come back for him for two days. Jefferson remembers to answer her when she taunts, "Still no luck?"


End file.
